Scattered Robins: Dark Paradise
by thelittlestcrane
Summary: [SR Part 3] Jason is dead. Tim deals with it the only way he knows how - not well. Scattered Robins AU; Main Story. (9/19).
1. Heaving Through Corrupted Lungs

**It's not required reading, but this chapter is nearly a direct sequel to "The Pain of Yesterday" in Rogue Gallery. This is the main story of Scattered Robins.**

Scattered Robins Order

1. Rogue Gallery

2. Conundrum

3. Dark Paradise

4. & 5. n/a

* * *

Jason is dead.

Jason is _dead_.

Never coming back.

Timmy will never see him again. Never hear his voice. His laugh. See his eyes narrow when he concentrates. See him frown when he thinks he's being treated unfairly. _See_ him.

It's…

It's a horrible feeling. Nagging. Clawing. Shredding. It's so much worse than anything Timmy has ever felt. It's like he's screaming, and no one can hear. It's like he can't breathe. It's like he's on fire and it's like he's being held down in ice water. It's like half of him died with Jason, and he's never getting that half back.

He's never getting _Jason_ back.

He can't eat. He can't sleep. Everything he does just reminds him that Jason will never do it again. Dick has tried. Selina has tried. Stephanie and Cass have tried. None of them get it. Sure, they're sad. They're horrified. But they don't _understand_.

Timmy loved Jason.

Loves him.

And Jason, despite all the run-arounds and aversions and brush-offs. All the snarks and jibes and general aloofness. Jason loved him too. Timmy knows it.

Hopes it.

Miss Harleen doesn't know what to do. How to treat him. She loves Mr. J. _The Joker_. She loves Timmy too. They're her family like she's Timmy's family. _Him_ too. He killed Jason. He murdered him and hurt him and took him away from Timmy, but he's still family. Timmy can't change that.

(The Joker is back in Arkham thanks to Batman. Timmy doesn't care. He doesn't ever want to see the Joker again.)

But Jason is dead.

Not coming back.

Jason is….somewhere. Heaven, probably. And Timmy is never going to see him again. Because Timmy is bad. He isn't going to Heaven.

He isn't sure he even believes in it.

But for Jason, he has to. Jason _has_ to be in Heaven. An angel.

Timmy doesn't think he can take it, though. The feeling. The missing. The loss. It's too much. He's cried and screamed and thrown his tantrums, and now he's static. Blank. Like a doll. He can't eat. He can't think. Everything is on repeat. Horrible, terrible repeat.

The news report announcing Jason's death.

The Joker getting back to Gotham, bragging about it to Harley.

The fight.

(Timmy doesn't remember much of it. As soon as the Joker confessed, his mind shut off and he tackled the Joker. He knows he beat him pretty good before Harley pulled him off, but after that, nothing.)

And Jason.

Jason staying with him the whole night. Waiting for him to come around on his own. Not pushing. Not demanding. Not expectant. Just waiting.

And leaving.

And dying.

Batman isn't doing anything. He put the Joker in jail. Again.

Timmy hates him all the more for it.

Jason is dead.

Timmy misses him.

Selina runs her fingers through his hair and calls him kitten.

Dick sits by the bed and hopes he'll eat.

Stephanie asks if he needs anything.

Cass offers silent support.

Timmy wants to answer. He does need something. He needs Jason.

He'll settle for the Batman's corpse and the Joker never able to hurt anyone again, for now.

He heard Batgirl got hurt too. Dick said. Wheelchair bound.

Because of the Joker.

Timmy liked Batgirl. She wasn't always around, but she was nice. She never scared him or tried to arrest him. Sometimes she told him things about Jason.

Timmy misses Jason.

It hurts to think. It hurts to breathe. It's like there's a weight on his chest, pressing on his lungs and cutting off his air supply. It's like he's slowly suffocating. It's like he's having a panic attack.

Selina, and Dick, and Steph. They all tell him that Jason is in better place (he knows). The Jason isn't in pain (he knows). That even if Jason is gone, he'll live on in Timmy's heart.

It's a lie.

A dirty, rotten lie.

If Jason was living in his heart, he'd rip it out so Jason could have it. _Nothing_ lives in his heart. Certainly not Jason.

Jason doesn't liveanywhere_._

Jason is dead.

Timmy can't change that. God can't change that. No one can change that.

Jason is dead. Forever.

Timmy can't stay here. Not without Jason. Not with Harleen. Not with Selina. Not with Dick.

He has to leave. He has to run and…

He'll leave a note. Tell them not to look for him. They won't find him anyway. He's good at hiding.

He needs…he needs space. He needs Batman's head on a platter. He needs the Joker bleeding out on the floor.

He needs Jason.

But he can't have Jason.

So he'll have to have Jason's revenge instead.


	2. Long Way to Happy

The Batsignal does not light up the sky.

The city is quiet.

_Gotham_ is quiet.

The shadows say nothing, keeping to the alleys and slums. People are locked in their homes, children tucked into bed early. Police cruisers patrol the streets, not finding any criminal activity. Socialites are returning to their lavish homes from pointless parties.

In upscale Gotham, the Wayne Hotel is hosting such a pointless party. The founding families, among other rich socialites, mill around the room. Bruce Wayne pulls on his bowtie, adjusts his cufflinks, and leans closer to Alfred Pennyworth.

"What is this party for again?"

Alfred sighs, low and long-suffering, "Too many late nights, Master Bruce?"

"Alfred, you know as well as I do that-"

"You were working on putting Victor back behind bars, yes." Alfred doesn't have to roll his eyes to display his lack of mirth, "The Drake family has called together a debut party."

"Debut?" Bruce looks around the ballroom, eyes sweeping over expensive suits and lavish dresses. "I was under the impression that their son was missing for the last…"

Alfred sighs again, "He's been missing since he was eight. Roughly six years."

Bruce frowns, "Have there been any news reports proclaiming his return? A big family like the Drakes."

"Not that I've seen or read, sir."

"What about G-"

"Brucie!"

In an instant, Bruce fades into his less evolved persona, engaging the small band of women that flock to his side in conversation.

Alfred keeps his next sigh internal. It's going to be a long night.

:::

In the heart of the slums, a window breaks, a black blur shooting out of it and down the street. Two blocks down, and up one fire escape, finally coming to a stop on a rooftop. A string of pearls is held up to the moonlight for inspection.

"Pearls? Really, Aunt Selina?"

Selina turns fluidly, a slow smile pulling her lips, "_Kitten_. It's _has_ been a while."

Alley Cat laughs, sauntering closer and brushing their shoulders together, "Only a few weeks. It's harder to break out of Blackgate than I thought."

"And how was your first official stint in the slammer."

"Cobblepot was my cellmate," Dick frowns, "I think I still smell penguiny."

Selina laughs, walking to the edge of the roof, "Not much has happened since you've been gone. Ivy broke out of Arkham. Stephanie and Cass officially, ah, _came out_. Not that we didn't all know they were together, but still important."

"Good for them." Dick nods, "What about your love life, Auntie? Still banging the Bat?"

"Excuse you," Selina frowns, "I did not raise you to speak that way."

"Yeah, you did."

"Fine." Selina waves a hand, "We've hooked up. Only a few times. He's very intense. I can't always keep up with that. He's…he's a good man, but he's troubled."

Dick snorts, "Aren't we all?"

Selina laughs, holding out the pearls, "I assume you're low on income."

Dick frowns, "I can't take that from _you_."

"Kitten, _please_." Selina huffs, "Let me dote on you once in a while."

Dick sighs, "Yeah, okay."

Selina puts the string of pearls in his hand then pulls him in for a hug, She pulls back just as quickly, "You haven't showered yet?"

"I just broke out."

"Go home, precious. We'll catch up in the morning." Selina pats his arm.

"Love you too, Auntie S."

"I know you do."

They part ways, Selina heading to her next low-profile lift and Dick heading back to his apartment. He comes in through the balcony, tossing the pearls on the couch as he passes to deactivate the security systems (sometimes he steals tech, okay. It's Gotham, it can't hurt to be safe).

He leans against the kitchen wall, staring at his phone, "Three…two…one…"

The phone rings right on cue and Dick answers on the second ring, "Hello, ladies."

"Welcome back, AC." Stephanie replies with a laugh.

"Hi." Cass says.

"Did you become someone's prison bitch?"

"No!" Dick laughs, pulling a barstool over with the arc of his foot.

"Have you heard anything about Timmy?" Cass asks the daily question.

Dick sighs, "Not in two years," He sits. "We all know how much of a toll Robin's death took on him. We don't _know_ if he's ever coming back."

"He's coming back." Stephanie says, "It's Gotham. Everyone returns to Gotham."

Dick is quiet, and Cass fills the silence.

"It's just a matter of when."

:::

The Drake's son is not what Bruce would have expected from a kidnap victim. He strides around the room with a confidence, greeting the socialites as if he's done it for years. No one asks where he'd been. Not with his parents shadowing him.

At fourteen, Timothy Drake is thin and pale. He has dark hair and blue eyes, looking nothing like his parents. Bruce takes another sip of wine, pretending to listen to Vicki Vale's newest headline.

The small tap on his shoulder startles him. He turns, surprised to the star of the evening standing before him. Bruce makes a show of looking at his outstretched hand for a measure of time before talking it. "Timmy Drake, right?"

For a moment the boy looks like Bruce socked him in the stomach. He collects himself quickly and Bruce makes a note not to hit that trigger again.

"It's Timothy," He corrects, "Or Tim, actually." He nods to the butler at Bruce's side. "Mr. Pennyworth. Mr. Wayne."

"Oh, you know me?" Brucie smiles.

"Everyone who has ever lived in Gotham knows the Wayne family. It helps that _my_ family lives next door."

"Ah, that _is_ the Drake home, isn't it?" Brucie nods to the two behind him. "Jack. Jill."

"Janet," The woman corrects.

"Janet," Brucie pretends to look apologetic.

"I wanted to thank you," Tim speaks up, "For allowing us the use of your hotel tonight. We really appreciate it."

"It's no problem, my boy." Brucie claps him on the shoulder. "I've got plenty to spare." He laughs.

Tim nods slowly.

"Anyway, I'm glad to hear you've returned safe and sound, Timbo. Not many kids in Gotham get the same chance."

Tim nods, eyeing the glass I his hand.

"Thank you. I hope you enjoy the rest of the party, Mr. Wayne. I know it's open bar, but don't drink yourself to death. You have a big day tomorrow."

Brucie laughs, nodding as Tim makes to turn away.

"Oh, Mr. Wayne." Tim turns around, "I heard about what happened to your ward. I'm very sorry for your loss."

Bruce's mouth goes dry, and he can feel Alfred tense next to him. "I…erm. Thank you."

Tim nods and disappears into the crowd, his parents following closely behind.

Bruce sets down the empty glass on the bar counter. "Bartender? I need something stronger." Bruce takes a deep breath. "A _lot_ stronger."


	3. Nuvole Bianche

Bruce shows up to the board meeting ten minutes late, hair disheveled and suit wrinkled. Where he usually tries to make an effort, he hadn't. It had been a hard night of patrol and thought of Jason had settled heavily on his mind. He can taste the morning's wine in his mouth, and it almost makes him feel worse.

Lucius Fox stares at him in disapproval as he slides into the chair at the head of the table. "Good of you to finally join us, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce manages a nod, wincing at the tone.

"As I was saying," Lucius continues, "This morning a commercial was aired about Wayne Tech. We were accused of using unsafe materials in our productions, using salaries to rent out entire islands for vacation, siphoning money from charities we claim to give to, and supplying our hospitals with the remedial technology to make the biggest prophet."

_This_ is news to Bruce.

"It's only the first of many attacks we received last night. Hacked files, destroyed virus protection, and this morning," Lucius holds up an envelope, "This arrived in the mail for Mr. Wayne."

Bruce sits straighter, frowning at Lucius, "Have we caught who's behind the attacks?"

"I assume this letter will tell us more." Lucius walks around the table, holding it out to Bruce.

Bruce accepts the envelope, turning it over in his hands. Across the front, his name is scrawled in elegant handwriting, a wax seal closing the envelope. "A little old fashioned." Bruce mutters, picking it apart and opening the letter.

The board watches as Bruce scans the paper, Lucius hovering at his shoulder.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Wayne,_

_You may have noticed a few choice files went missing last night, among other things. Then again, you may have not. The commercial was my idea as well, and though it may be riddled with lies, all the public needs is a good push to start a panic. _

_I'm glad we got a chance to speak civilly last night. I feel that probably won't happen again, at least on my part._

_I'm going to be blunt, Mr. Wayne. I don't like you. You're a fake, and most often, a flake. You publically fund a vigilante. Your company controls half of Gotham. _

_The time of the Waynes is over. Step aside for the new Generation and watch your company go down with dignity, or watch it hit rock bottom with a reputation you can never redeem. _

_Sincerely,_

_Timothy Jackson Drake._

_Drake Enterprises._

* * *

Bruce frowns, "Timothy _Drake_? He's just a boy. A boy who returned from a kidnapping, no less."

"There are theories," Lucius begins, "That he returned long ago and his parents were just too afraid to let him leave the house again. That would explain his knowledge and apparent grudge against the company."

"He's a _boy_," One of the board members says, "Set up new firewalls and be done with it. A _teenager_ can hardly bring down Wayne Tech."

"Half the city's rogues are teenagers," Lucius frowns at them, "Don't underestimate based on age."

"Wayne Tech has no hand in any Drake dealings. Why would he have a grudge?" Another asks.

"I suppose that's something only Mr. Drake can tell us."

"He can't do anything, not really." Bruce says, "His parents are the ones in charge of Drake Enterprises, not him."

"Well, you see Mr. Wayne," Lucius frowns, "This morning's paper says otherwise."

He tosses the newspaper on the table before Bruce. Bruce lifts it up, furrowing his brows as he reads the headline. Drake Enterprises Passes to Next Gen. "They named him heir?"

"Not exactly," Lucius replies. "They stepped down. He's the sole leader of their business and it seems Wayne Tech is his first competitor."

Bruce sighs, leaning back in his chair and tossing the paper to the table. "Crush him. Wayne Tech provides invaluable assets to Gotham. I won't lose that over a petty, inexplicable grudge."

:::

Colton Philips, member of the board, slips into the back seat of his car, closing the door as the driver pulls into traffic. He sighs, wiping his brow with a white handkerchief before turning to the boy sitting next to him.

"He said he won't lose the company over an inexplicable grudge."

Timothy Drake frowns, inspecting his nails with detached interest, "Inexplicable?" He lays his hand on his thigh, drumming his fingers, "What else did he say?"

"I…It's Mr. _Wayne_, he's not usually even _sober_. I don't see why it matters-"

"Answer the question, Philips. You _do_ want to go home, don't you?"

Philips swallows, "Yes. Yes." He takes a breath, "They aren't threatened by you. They think you're just a boy with no power."

"Well, they're right." Tim muses, "I _am_ just a boy. But a boy can do a lot with the right motivation, and Wayne has given me all the motivation I need."

"Er…why _do_ you hate Wayne? Haven't you been _gone_ for a long time?"

"Not that it's any of your _business_," Tim begins, "but he took something away from me. Well, had a hand in it."

"From your family, you mean. _You've_ been missing for six years-"

"From _me_." Tim pats the back of the driver's seat and the car turns down and alley. "Tell me, Phillips, how high is your clearance level in Wayne Tech?"

"It…depends."

"If I needed you to retrieve something from Bruce Wayne's office, could you do it without raising suspicion?"

He shakes his head, "Probably not."

"Mm. Then you're of no further use to me." Tim leans between the seats, "Driver, take Mr. Phillips to the docks. See how long he can hold his breath under water."

"He's _my_ driver." Colton gapes, looking hurriedly in the rearview mirror. The driver doesn't look back.

"Anyone can be bought, Mr. Phillips, and we had a nice chat about his payroll while you were in your meeting." Tim turns back to the driver, "When you're done with that, pick me up at the Chinese place on the corner."

"Yes, sir." The driver replies.

The car jerks to a stop, and Phillips smacks his head on the back of the seat. Tim slips out, closing the door behind him before Phillips can collect himself and the car speeds away. He puts his hands in his pockets, staring up at the gray sky.

A hint of anxiety is bubbling in his stomach. He sent Phillips to die. He's never done that before, not actively. Tim pushes it down, breathing heavily. It's for Jason. All for Jason. That's what's important. That's what matters. Everything else is meaningless. Death. Killing.

Tim shakes his head, turning and heading back to the main street. It's lunchtime, and he would like some Chinese.


	4. Take Your Aim

"Master Bruce, if you would be so kind to get out of bed so I don't have to pull you from it?"

Bruce muffles a groan into his pillow, pushing himself to his forearms and searching the bedroom for Alfred, "It can't be past noon already."

"Well past, I'm afraid." Alfred sets a cup of coffee on the nightstand, the smell filling the room. "You have a luncheon today."

"I do?"

"Mr. Fox informed me of the hacking yesterday. Apparently a lunch meeting with one _Mr. Drake_ has been slipped in your schedule during the incident."

Bruce takes a moment to think, "He hacked in to my system to schedule a _luncheon_?"

"It appears so." Alfred replies dryly. "So if you wouldn't mind getting yourself ready, Master Bruce, you have to meet him in an hour at Fox Gardens."

"Fox Gardens? A little expensive for a teenager."

Alfred lifts an eyebrow, "He _is_ from a wealthy family. Now _up_, Master Bruce. It's time to face the day."

Bruce frowns, pushing his hair off his forehead, "My least favorite words."

:::

Fox Gardens is as upscale as Bruce remembers it, despite him not having brought anyone in a long while. The lights are dim, the music classy, and everyone dressed in their Sunday best. It's well past the lunch rush, but Bruce still recognizes several other groups of socialites eating at the booths and drinking at the bar.

Bruce absentmindedly straightens his suit as he comes to a stop before the hostess. The woman looks up, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Mr. Wayne. Your table is ready."

"My table?"

"Mr. Drake already reserved your seat." She walks around the stand, "Right this way."

Bruce follows her through the restaurant to the patio doors. She leads him outside, walking past empty, unset tables until they come to one table underneath a large, decorative umbrella. The table is empty, but plates and silverware are set out, and the hostess pulls out a chair for him.

Bruce slowly sits, leaning back as she sets the menu in front of him. "Mr. Drake has left instructions to order whatever you'd like. He's going to be running a little late so lunch will be on him."

"That's…nice of him." Bruce scoots the chair closer to the table.

"Wine?" The hostess offers, "Mr. Drake said it seemed like you had a taste for it."

Bruce isn't sure if _that's_ nice. "I'll pass, thanks."

The hostess nods and goes back inside. Bruce looks around, drumming his fingers on the table top. Part of him, the constantly suspicious constantly vigilant part, feels like this is some kind of set-up. The other part just thinks this is strange.

There are facts. Timothy Drake has been missing, according to Alfred, for roughly six years. His return to society wasn't covered by the media, and Gordon hadn't alerted Batman even though Bruce _knows_ he was on the case when the boy originally disappeared. He's entirely too sure of himself for a victim of such and act, and he knows, at least a little, about things that happened during his absence.

There are loose ends. Where had he been? Who took him? Who let him go? Had he been ransomed off? Had Lucius's suggestion been correct and he'd been kept inside for the last handful of years because his parents were paranoid/afraid/overprotective. Why take over his parent's company at…what, fourteen? Why go for Wayne Tech?

Regardless, something doesn't add up, and Bruce will be damned if he pretends to be a dumb socialite while some little boy tries to take his company from him.

:::

Timothy shows up twenty minutes late with a tense smile and no apology. He slides into the chair across from Bruce, murmuring something to the hostess who nods and leaves them on their own. Tim watches her go with guarded eyes.

"Heavy traffic?" Bruce lifts an eyebrow.

"No," Tim replies, dropping his smile once the patio door swings closed. "Mr. Wayne, I want to keep this simple. I intend to take Drake Enterprises to the top, where it belongs, and your company stands in the way. It's my opinion that your company would be best served in my repertoire anyway, so I _propose_ that you sell all of your shares to D.E."

Bruce frowns. That _is_ simple, and to the point, but completely illogical and extremely presumptuous. "I don't think you understand what my company has done for Gotham, _boy_." Bruce stresses the word, "We fund _every_ hospital in the city. We keep police equipment up to date. We give public schools a technological advantage. We have opened _numerous_ halfway houses in the slums for troubled kids-"

"I am well aware what Wayne Tech has a hand in, _Bruce_." Tim frowns, Bruce's name falling from his tongue like something unsavory. "_Everything_ it has a hand in, in fact."

Bruce blinks, waiting for him to expound.

"You fund the Batman." Tim says, "Publically, no less."

Bruce takes a breath, "Batman helps the city. The crime rate is _significantly_ lower-"

"_Is it_?" Tim interrupts sharply. "Petty crimes, maybe. What about bigger things? Arson? Kidnappings? _Murder_? All to get the attention of the Batman so these criminals can brag about it in prison. It does nothing but _hurt_ the people of the city caught in the crossfire."

"You're very knowledgeable about the Batman for someone who's been _missing_ for the last six years." Bruce replies dryly.

Tim's lips twitch, "Well, you don't miss _everything_."

"Where were you, Mr. Drake?"

"With Gotham." Before Bruce can work out the riddle, Tim barrels on, "I'm going to be blunt, Mr. Wayne-"

"You don't like me." Bruce remembers _that_ from the letter.

"No. I don't." Tim sits back.

"You know nothing about me, _Timmy_." It's a test, if anything, and Bruce doesn't miss the obvious flinch and flash of anger that passes in Tim's eyes when he says the name.

"I know enough." He replies shortly, "I know you fund a vigilante who worries more about the victims of the crime than the mental state of the people committing them-"

"That argument is _completely_-"

"I know that most of the time you're too drunk to remember anything about yourself so the media can have a field day. A distraction tactic if there ever was one." Tim talks over him, "Lastly, I know that you're a terrible father, and _trust me_, I know a thing or two about terrible fathers."

The comment hits Bruce like a freight train, "You don't know _anything_ about how I was with my _son_."

Tim narrows his eyes, "I know that a responsible father wouldn't have let his _son_ run off to another country in search of a woman who might not have even existed. I know that a responsible father would have _stopped_ him. I know that a _responsible_ father wouldn't have let the man who _killed his child_ walk away."

Bruce presses his nails into his palm, curbing the flare of anger and bile that rises at the words, "How do _you_ know about all of this?"

Tim stands, tossing a few bills on the table and starting away. He calls his answer over his shoulder.

"_You're_ the detective."


	5. It Isn't, Is It?

Tim scrolls through his messages from his new contact with a slight smile. According to his new insider, Bruce has been looking into his public records with the Wayne Tech system, which can only mean Batman has been doing the same with his super computer.

Good.

Tim wants him to know who he's up against. He wants Batman to know _why_.

He glances up as the car pulls to a stop, the driver barking out his fee. Tim digs the bills out of the side pocket of his bag, handing them over and gathering his things. Tim gets out of the car, slinging the duffle bag over his shoulder. He waves the taxi off, turning to face the line of run-down buildings.

The slums look worse than ever, panels falling off the front of buildings and shingles missing from the roofs. Tim shakes his head, digging his key out from his jacket pocket. There's a set of stairs that lead down to a sub-floor of one of the buildings, and Tim takes them, unlocking the door at the end and slipping inside.

The room is bare, floors dust-covered, and windows dark. Tim remembers it more vibrant than this – the place he and Harley would come when the Joker was locked up in Arkham or in a bad mood – but it's not without hope.

He sets the bag on the ground, taking a quick walk around the small apartment. The back two rooms are still intact, the small bathroom still equipped with a toilet. It's good. He can operate most of his systems from the building while keeping his important possessions hidden away from the Drakes.

His make-up. His flashy clothes.

His photo collection.

Tim looks around again, taking note of what he'll need before he can start calling this his safe house. A refrigerator. A bathtub. A bed. Maybe a couch and definitely a television. He can get most of those things from the Drake house, and it's not like they'll ask questions.

For now, though, Tim just wants to take in the silence. He returns to the main room, sitting on the dusty floor next to his bag. The movers can bring everything tomorrow, and then he can pay them to forget why.

After that…

After that he can start some trouble, and he already knows his opening act.

:::

By the time Tim has paid the movers and they've left, the place is in much better shape. The light bulbs are changes, the floors shining, and it's furnished. One of the backrooms is serving as his kitchen and laundry room, the other his dressing room. The main room is his bedroom, living room, and office.

Tim navigates down the small hallway towards the dressing room, finding his duffle bag on the vanity table. Tim frowns, wondering if he should go back and yell at the movers for touching it. They're probably long gone by now, so he leaves it, unzipping the bag and taking out the big photo album.

One by one, pictures go up on the wall. Pictures of the old days. Of hanging out with Dick in his apartment. Of spending time with Steph and Cass in the greenhouse. One for each of the cats that frequented Selina's apartment. Quite a few of Selina herself. A few of Miss Harleen.

One of Batman and one of the Joker, side by side and distanced from the rest of the photos.

Tim moves to the other wall, the one his vanity is pushed up against. That's where the best ones go.

Pictures of Jason. Of Robin.

Tim has a lot of those. Newspaper clippings. Articles printed from online. A few pictures from the days when Harley would kidnap him and send the Batman photo-clues. Tim has all of those.

His favorites, though, are the ones from the night he dragged Jason to the state fair. He still remembers how reluctant Jason was to go dressed in his Robin suit, but it really was a much better idea for them to go in costume considering Robin ended up saving a bunch of people from Mr. Freeze.

He remembers bringing one of the old disposable cameras along and taking pictures of Jason any chance he got. Jason eating cotton candy. Jason yelling at some little punks who made him drop his chili dog on the ground. Jason winning a giant stuffed bear at the shooting stall.

He's got one of them at the top of the Ferris wheel, Jason pulling him back from leaning too far out of the cart. There's a good one of Jason on the carousel, riding the horse on his hands while Timmy cheers him on. There's another of Jason kicking a shady guy in a trench coat in the shins and another of him stealing the same guy's popcorn.

Tim's absolute favorite gets taped to the mirror of the vanity. A photo strip from when Timmy pulled Jason into one of the photo booths for over an hour. They only ended up getting a few good ones, and Tim has all of the others in a shoebox under his bed in the Drake's house, but this is the one he likes best.

It's a strip of four, one he actually managed to get Jason to pose for. The stuffed bear is in the back of each one, in various stages of falling out of the frame. In the first frame, both of them are leaning too close to the camera, and Tim vaguely remembers they were trying to see if it would work after Jason hotwired the system because neither of them had any money.

The second and third are the same, the only difference being Jason. In the second frame, Timmy is pouting at Jason, cheeks puffed and nose wrinkled, the same as the third. Jason goes from looking mildly miffed in the second photo to sighing in defeat in the third. The fourth shows Jason leaning forward, giving Timmy a light peck on the lips.

It's the only time Tim can remember Jason kissing him, and he has half a dozen copies of that frame alone.

Tim traces the edge of the picture before he turns around, sinking into the seat in front of the vanity. He still as to organize all of his make-up, and set up his security system, and find something to eat, and find something to do until the Batman begins his patrol of the city.

Before Batman, he needs to hunt down Alley Cat and buy some information off him.

Tim doesn't know which is more jarring, seeing Batman after two years or seeing Dick.

Regardless, he has to do both at some point before the next evening.

Tomorrow, he buys his first round of Wayne stocks.

Tonight, though.

Tonight things get explosive.


	6. All Eyes on Me

**Anno drew a lovely piece for Tim's costume change over on my tumblr (link on my profile). Click on the "Other People's Art" in the summary box and she'll bee the first. Love her because she is amazing.**

* * *

Dick doesn't often get messages from new clients. He has a motto and he sticks to it; if his caller I.D. can't recognize you, you're not worth risking his life. Dick has a small circle of people he would die for: Auntie S, Steph and Cass, occasionally Ivy (if only for Steph and Cass), and Timmy, and Timmy has been missing for the last two years.

Still, he's low on funds from his too-recent prison stint, and Aunt Selina's bulgurversary is coming up soon, so he decides he might as well meet the new contact.

It's a simple enough job. The guy wants to know a little about the Joker and is willing to pay a lot. If Dick wasn't already a thief he'd feel bad for swindling the guy (or girl, he supposes he shouldn't jump to conclusions based on text tone. He's made that mistake before.) considering he's been keeping tabs on the Joker since…Robin.

So Dick waits for the clock to strike ten before he slips into his suit and pulls his goggles over his eyes. As always, he promises his little runaway kittens a treat when he comes back, before flipping off the balcony and letting the shadows of Gotham catch him.

The rendezvous point is a few miles from Dick's apartment, down a few shady alleys, in the open area of a dead-end street that leads to an old paint factory that's been abandoned since Dick was born.

Dick climbs up to the top of the arch that makes up the doorway to the old factory and pulls out his phone, scrolling through his old emails while he waits. Selina always taught him to look casual when meeting with potential contacts considering Gotham is usually such a threatening place.

He lies there for a good ten minutes before he hears the telltale sign of footsteps headed his way from the shadows. Dick slips his phone back in his breast pocket, zipping back up and adjusting his goggles for clearer vision.

"Alley Cat, right?" The voice calls from the alley on Dick's right. Judging from the tone, it _is_ a boy, and Dick feels like he didn't really need to ask.

"That's what they call me," Dick replies smoothly, sitting up and sliding down the arch, landing on his toes and leaning back against the structure fluidly. "And what am I supposed to call you, Mr. Unknown Number? You never gave _me_ a name."

"…I'd prefer to keep that private in case this deal goes south."

"I don't work with no-names. You can give me a fake name if you want, just give me something to call you."

"Call me Alvin."

"Alvin? That's the _best_ name you can come up with?" Dick shakes his head, "Whatever. Not judging. But, I _also_ don't work with no-_bodys_. Step out where I can see you, _Alvin_."

There's a beat of silence in which Dick wonders if he's going to have to go rob a bank for this week's utilities bill before there's a shuffle and a boy steps out from the alley dressed to the nines.

There's a sort of circus theme to the costume, Dick thinks. A red waistcoat with blank decoratives and yellow bands around the wrist cuffs. Along with the tophat, it's all very sophisticated up top. The bottom half of the outfit is a contrast, made up of shorts and ripped leggings that lead to almost pirate-styled boots.

Both hands are resting on the top of a cane that the boy is leaning his weight on, though Dick isn't sure if it's for decoration or because he actually needs it. The make-up, though, makes him blink. A white-painted face with black circles around the eyes and thin red lines running from each eye to the bottom of the boy's jaw.

Dick narrows his eyes behind the goggles. The facial recognition feature is going haywire, and it forces Dick to push them off his face and into his hair. "We've met before." He says, crossing his arms and frowning.

'Alvin' shifts, pulling the brim of his hat lower, "You have information on the Jok-"

"_Timmy_!" Dick drops his arms, mind finally clicking. His face is more angular, less baby fat, but Dick sill recognizes him. "Oh my _god_! Where the hell have you _been_?"

"Alley Cat-"

"No." Dick strides forward, "Answer my question. Do you know how _worried_ we've been about you? We thought…we thought the _worst_, Timmy."

"Don't call me that." He looks up with a fierce scowl, "It's _Tim_ now."

Dick frowns, taking a better look at Tim's clothes and make-up, "What's with the costume change?"

Tim straightens, keeping a tight hold on his cane. "_I'm_ different. I needed a different look."

Dick takes a breath, trying to keep his tone even, "Timm-. Tim. We're all really worried about you. Where have you been?"

"It doesn't matter." Tim frowns, "What matters is why I asked you out here. I need information about the Joker."

"Tim, _please_ don't tell me you're hatching some horrible revenge plot. We know what happened to Robin-"

"_Jason_."

"…Jason was _terrible_, but it's been two years. You have to try and move on. Live _your_ life."

"That's not your choice, _Dick_." Tim raps his thumb on the handle of the cane, "Just tell me what I'm buying from you."

Dick furrows his eyebrows, "Tim-"

"Tell me!"

Dick closes his eyes, taking another deep breath. He pulls his goggles down before opening them. "The Joker is in Arkham, rotting in some cell, just like he should be. Batman threw him in there shortly after Jason died and he hasn't broken out since. His thugs still rob banks and other places, but not much else.

Tim…leave it be, please. Getting involved with the Joker…it's not a good idea. Me, Selina, the girls…we don't want anything to happen to you."

"Too little too late," Tim tips his hat back, "The Joker isn't my only target. He's not the only one at fault, here."

"…you don't mean Batman, do you?" Dick shifts, "Timmy-"

"Tim."

"-you can't fight against the Bat. You're in the same boat. He lost a son that day-"

"Shut up!" Tim picks up the cane and jabs it forward, narrowly avoiding Dick but making him jump back defensively, "You don't know _anything_ about Jason's death, Alley Cat, so don't pretend you do."

"Tim, I'm just _worried_-"

"Don't be. I managed myself for two years, I think I'm good." Tim snaps. He looks down, trying to quell his sudden anger. "Look, I know Jason's death didn't mean as much to you all as it did to me. I get it. None of you were in love with him. I _was_. I am. And I _need_ this, Dick.

I can't just _move on_ when my own father killed Jason. How do you think _I_ feel about all of this? I'm planning my father's murder. Jason's father's murder. I'm not doing anything remotely _good_, but I'm doing it because Jason didn't get the justice he deserved. Not from anyone, and I _need_ this. Do you understand _that_?"

"No, Timmy, I don't." Dick shakes his head, "But…I can try." He shrugs, "We just want you to be _safe_, Tim. That's all we were hoping for the last two years. We may not have been in love with Jason, but we love _you_, and we don't want anything to happen to you."

Tim tightens his hold on the cane, "I…I'm sorry."

"No, don't be." Dick rubs his neck, "You're right. I don't understand. I've lost people, but that was a long time ago, and I had Selina to pick me up. _I'm_ sorry we didn't do a better job of that."

They fall into uncertain silence.

"…you know I have to tell everyone, right?"

Tim nods slowly.

Dick sighs, "Good luck, Tim. This isn't going to be easy for you, and if you get too close to the Bat, Auntie S is going to have a talk with you. Avoid her if you can."

Tim nods again.

"Do you have plans for the rest of the night?"

"Yes." Tim shifts, "I'm making a statement."

Dick eyes his leggings, "_Yeah_, you are."

"_Dick_-!"

"Joking. Be careful, Timmy. Tim. Call me when your schedule slows down. We need to have a serious talk. The girls too."

"I will…thanks." Tim begins to back up towards the alley, "I have to go. I'm running late."

Dick waves him off, "Go."

He watches as Tim disappears into the shadows, and once Tim is gone he swallows the lump in his throat. He's never been a big fan of praying, but he _prays_ that whatever Tim has planned doesn't send him to an early grave.

He's lost enough people already.


	7. In the Center of the Ring

Although it's much easier to breathe once he's put distance between himself and Dick, he wasn't lying. He's late for his opening night.

He wasn't lying when he told Dick he wasn't planning anything good, either.

A lot of people are going to get hurt in the crossfire, and most of them will have nothing to do with Jason's death. Tim can't help that, and honestly, he doesn't care. Whatever part of him would have cared is hidden under the layers of _hurt_ and _loss_ and _Jason_, and Tim isn't going to try and pick it out.

He makes his way through the alleys of the city, heading towards one of the ghost suburbs of Gotham. The police are already running around looking for his hostage, another employee of Wayne Tech, this one from the medical branch. Tim's anonymous tip had been called in hours before, scattering them as far away from the actual scene as possible.

He doesn't want the police involved. This is his fight.

Tim's fingers tighten on the handle of his cane.

Yes. His fight, and Jason's.

:::

The house is empty of all furniture, save the chair in the middle of the living room that the good doctor is tied to, and the tripod across from it. She looks up when Tim comes in, eyes red-rimmed and face marred with dried tears.

He tips his hat to her and let's just a little of Timmy out to play, "Evening, doc."

She says something, screams something, but it's muffled by the duct tape across her mouth. Tim smiles at the grin he drew on it, jagged and black.

"Don't you worry about a thing," He tells her, fiddling with the video camera, "Batman is going to come and save you. Because. Everyone knows Batman only saves the people that _don't matter_."

Tim turns the camera on, adjusting the angle so he has the doctor in the frame. A nice little bomb sits just under the doctor's chair, the timer frozen at five minutes. She makes another noise and Tim glances up, "Sorry, could you repeat that?"

She squeezes her eyes shut, more tears sliding down her cheeks.

"_Oh_. Oh, _hey_. _Listen_." Tim walks around the camera, squatting before the good doctor. The tails of his coat brush against the hardwood floors, the boards creaking underneath his weight. Tim knows the floorboards have been rotting for the last few days. He's the one that flooded the apartment, after all. "Don't _cry_. Batman will be on his way as soon as I start the video. You don't even have to worry about being on camera for very long. I'll be leaving as soon as I know he's seen you and the bomb."

That doesn't seem to make her feel better. Tim sighs and stands, going back to the camera. He takes it off the tripod, absentmindedly kicking the stand over. "It's incredible what they can do with technology if you can pay for it. When I was little, all I had were those cheap disposable things. You know the ones? Anyway, this can broadcast online in an instant, right to the channel I have the police waiting on. Kind of amazing what Wayne Tech cooks up. Too bad their CEO is a piece of shit."

Tim turns back, putting the woman in view of the lens, "Alright. We're live in five." He chuckles to himself.

He turns the camera back to himself just before he hits the button. He smiles widely, emulating as much of Timmy as he can, "Hello _officers_."

:::

Crouching on a roof miles and miles away, flanked by a sleeping gargoyle on either side, Batman watches the broadcast the police are so worried about start on his handheld monitor. The white noise fizzes out, the image of a boy quickly taking shape.

"Hello _officers_," He greets.

Batman narrows his eyes. The boy looks young. Teenaged.

"And, of course, Batman." The boy smiles, pulling the brim of his hat lower. "_If_ you're watching, and I sincerely hope you _are_."

For a moment, he remembers what Timothy Drake had said to him. How villains are hurting people just to get his attention these days.

"As you can probably see, I'm new in town, and I figured I'd be a good sport and introduce myself to the local authorities. So. _Hi_."

Batman frowns.

The teenager grins, showing off too-white teeth, "Call me Ring Leader."

Batman frowns at the obvious circus reference. The make-up. The clothes. The name. It's all very Joker-esque, and that never _ever_ bodes well in Gotham. However, the Joker is in Arkham, and Harley is with Poison Ivy, so who is this new face supposed to be?

_They had a boy_, his mind supplies, _but he's gone too_.

"I'll keep this _short_ and _sweet_. After all, I'm not the star of tonight's act." He turns the camera, "_She_ is."

A woman in a white lab-coat, one he vaguely recognizes, is tied to a chair, mouth covered, shaking and twisting and trying to break free. Batman's attention is immediately drawn to what's under the chair. A bomb.

"For those of you with impaired vision, I'll describe what's happening. Here we have a young woman, a good doctor, tied up to a nice kitchen chair. Underneath her is a lovely little bomb, all set to blow in five minutes. Think of this as a _test_. I want to know if you, Batman, can get here in time to save her. Because, you know, you aren't very good at saving people."

Batman clenches his teeth. This, too, is a Joker-shaded move.

"Ready." The Ring Leader sets the camera down, keeping the doctor in the frame.

"Set." Batman can hear retreating footsteps.

:::

"Go." Tim presses the switch on his cane, smiling widely when the timer blinks 4:59. 4:58. 4:57.

He waves to the terrified doctor, leaving the room. He doesn't have much time to get to his next destination. He needs a place safe from the blast, but close enough to see when Batman arrives. He slides down the banister of the stairs, reaching the ground floor and striding out the door.

As he crosses the street he twirls his cane, mind running through his performance. He _feels_ like he put enough personality distance between himself and Timothy. Batman is a good detective, and he wants the vigilante to know he and Jester are the same person, but he needs just a little time before Batman connects Timothy Drake to the mix.

Maybe he shouldn't have scheduled that luncheon after all.

Ah, well. There's nothing he can do about it now.

Tim enters the building across from the house, taking the stairs two at a time. He feels jittery, adrenaline and crazed excitement bubbling in his throat. He knows he told Alley Cat…Dick…that planning this…_enacting_ _it_ would be hard on him. Tim wonders if he's too far past the breaking point for that to be true. If he's past the point of caring about anything but Jason.

Tim slips into the room he needs, pleased to find it empty. He hurries to the window, wrenching it open and sitting on the sill. His hat comes off to rest on his lap and his cane rests against the floor, thumb swirling over the handle.

Now he waits.

He waits for Batman, and a dark little part of his mind tells him, draws the similarities to…_no_.

No, he can't think of that right now. He can think of Jay, and Jay's smile and laugh and eyes, and he can think of why he needs this and he can think that Jay is dead.

But he can't put himself in Jay's shoes. He _can't_.

Tim sees a flicker of black in the corner of his eye, watches Batman round the corner of the home and head for the door.

Three minutes on the dot. No doubt he tracked the stream from the video. It's _Wayne_ Tech after all.

Not bad.

But not good enough.

Tim flicks open the handle of the cane, exposing the switch. He presses just before Batman reaches the front doors, watching the windows blow out and the room light up with fire.

Batman didn't save Jason. Tim isn't going to let him save anyone else.


	8. Family Portrait

It's been one week. One week since Tim – no, _Ring Leader_ – made his first move against the Bat. One week since Bruce Wayne had to fund a company funeral. One week since his video was leaked to the web. One week since Ring Leader became the most talked about face in Gotham

Tim loves it. He loves having an edge over the Bat and he loves that people are watching. Watching Batman _fail_.

The small television in his secret home is enough to keep him in the loop, and he makes a habit of watching the news every night, keeping an eye out for things he can use against Batman. Making sure _he's_ still locked up and not roaming the streets.

Tim glances up at the screen, looking back down at his half-painted nails when he's sure it's just the weatherman on. As Timmy, he'd never really been into nail polish. Only the rare times when he could convince Alley Cat or Jason to paint his toes for him.

Now, as Ring Leader, he paints his nails every night before he goes out, removing the polish before he goes back to being Tim Drake. It's a lengthy process, but Tim likes the way his nails shine black in the light, so he doesn't plan on stopping any time soon. He gets so focused on staying off his skin that he almost misses the announcement from the newscaster.

"This just in, police are saying that a local botanical garden has turned into a botanical nightmare. Poison Ivy seems to be inside, along with a new partner who looks like…like…yes! It is! Poison Ivy has teamed up with Harley Quinn!"

Tim looks up sharply, the paint-coated brush stilling in the air. The screen shows two simple photos, one of Ivy and one of Harley, both from an old arrest. The marquee scrolling at the bottom of the images is going on about the recent heists and disturbances caused by the two.

Tim frowns, looking back down and slowly finishing his last nail.

He thought Harley would have been in Arkham too. Honestly, he wants her to be. It's better if she is. She'd be safe there. Out of the way. Now he'll have to plan around her.

Tim blows on his nails as he reaches for his phone, sending off a thumbed text message to one of the few people left in his contact list.

_I need some information._

While he waits for a response, Tim keeps his eyes on the television. The news has moved on to another story, but the scrolling marquee is updating the Ivy-Quinn situation. Apparently they'd broken into the Botanical Gardens claiming that the workers were not treating the plants right. According to the report, Ivy intends to make the Gardens her new home, and it doesn't look like there is much anyone can do to stop her. Tim wonders if Stephanie and Cass are there too.

Tim turns his attention back to his phone when it buzzes on the bedspread by his foot. He picks it up, navigating to the new message.

_You'll have to pay for it._

Tim inclines his head before he realizes that Alley Cat…Dick can't see him. _I can pay._

There's a long period where Tim gets no response. He's just about to toss the phone aside when it finally buzzes.

_One Hour – the roof of the Cat's Cradle. _

Tim nods to himself before typing back one last reply.

_What's the Cat's Cradle?_

:::

The Cat's Cradle, as it turns out, is a new nightclub in Gotham. Tim doesn't remember it being there when he was running around as Jester, but from his vantage point on the roof, he can see the line to enter the club extending almost a block back.

"Popular place."

"Yeah."

Tim turns. Alley Cat is standing behind him, goggles pulled over his eyes, reclining back on one foot while he lazily twirls the leather tail attached to his uniform through the air. Tim didn't even hear him arrive. He needs to work on that. Or Alley Cat needs to invest in a bell.

"Auntie S owns the place," Dick continues, "A lot of the working girls who've been abused wind up as employees here. If anyone starts any shit, they're kicked to the curb and banned from the club."

"_Catwoman_ runs this place?"

"Yep. It's why you don't hear much about her in the news anymore. She's always so busy here. I help out when I can, but I'm mostly here for entertainment purposes."

Tim stares, evaluating Dick's words, "You're a stripper?"

Dick laughs, dropping the extension of his uniform. "Have to make some extra cash somehow. Don't worry, Timmy, it's all very classy in there. Selina makes sure of it."

"_Tim_."

Dick doesn't bother to hide the frown, "Right. Sorry. What information are you looking for, exactly?"

"Harley Quinn." Tim runs a gloved hand through his hair. He had left the hat at home, saving it for special occasions, and it seemed to be a good choice. He'll have to keep that in mind.

Dick's expression falls, "What about her?"

"The news says she's working with Poison Ivy?"

"Yeah, her and Ives are partners right now." Dick crosses his arms, "That's not new information."

"It is to me. How long have they been working together?"

Dick studies him, slowly reclining his weight, "What do you want with Harley, _Tim_? She didn't have anything to do with-"

"I don't want to _hurt_ Harley," Tim snaps, thumb pressing the head of his cane, "I just. Want to keep her out of it."

Dick hums, continuing to study Tim's face. He blinks, tilting his head, "No hat? And your make-up is different. Right?"

"No hat," Tim nods slowly, "And it's just the color that's different."

"So…what, you're doing _mood_ make-up?" Dick snorts, "No mask either, I see."

"Are we really going to stand here talking about my _make-up_?"

"Well, I've got to get information _on_ you, too." Dick stretches. "Harley and Ivy have been working together, on and off, for a few months now. Maybe three months before you showed up in Gotham again. They typically hang out at Ivy's haunts, and like the news says, they want to make that garden their HQ. But sometimes they hang out here," Dick points down, indicating to the club, "Or at Selina's."

"Who wants information on me?"

"I can't tell you that," Dick frowns at him, "That's violating my code."

"Unless I pay for it, right?"

"Right," Dick grins, "A man has to make a decent living. Besides, I only sell the obvious about you. Make-up. Outfit. Motive. Your connection to the Joker. Nothing you don't broadcast yourself."

Tim looks away, staring at the next building over instead of Alley Cat, "Does Harley know who I am?"

"I don't know."

"Does she still think she's in love with the Joker?"

"What do you think?" Dick raises an eyebrow, "Although, for what it's worth, I think Ivy is trying to break her of that."

"Good," Tim nods, "I hope she does."

They stand in silence for a moment, shifting between their feet. Tim taps his fingers on his cane, not quite knowing how to end the conversation. "So-"

"She misses you, you know." Dick interjects. "Harley."

Tim looks down, hiding a grimace.

"You're her son. Or as good as." Dick puts his hands on his waist, "She didn't know what happened to you, or where you've went. She thinks you just up and left one day, and that she had no one to blame but herself and the Joker.

"I didn't know you cared so much about Harley." Tim says carefully, not meeting Dick's eyes. He sounds so…disappointed. In Tim. He has no right to sound that way, he has no idea what Tim felt like…having to _leave_…

"I don't, really. But she's Selina's friend, which makes her important." Dick folds his arms, "Even if you end up blowing the rest of us off, you need to see her."

"I can't." Tim looks up sharply, "She'll get involved. I don't want her to get hurt, and when push comes to shove, the Joker _will_ use her against me."

"Harley can make her own decisions, Tim. I understand that you want to keep her safe, but-"

"You don't _get it_," Tim laughs, head feeling light, "The Joker will _kill_ her if he thinks it will help him win. He killed Jason to get Batman's _attention_. Because he thought it was _funny_. What do you think he'll do to _her_?"

Dick frowns, "Tim…"

"I'm not going to see her. Not until the Joker is _dead_." Tim replies fiercely, "I think we're done here."

Dick sighs, "_Tim_-"

"You told me what I needed to know," Tim fishes a small pouch from inside his overcoat, tossing it to Dick. The man catches it with a scowl, opening it and peeking inside. "It's your pay in diamonds. That's how you like getting paid, right?"

"Oh, so _that_ you remember."

Tim frowns, turning away and calculating the best way to head home without Dick following him through the shadows.

"Hey."

Tim looks over his shoulder, guarding his expression.

"The Bat is on the lookout for you." Dick says, "Watch your back."

Tim nods shortly, "…thanks."

Dick lifts a shoulder in response, and when Tim slips off the roof and into the night, he doesn't follow.


	9. Gone Their Son

Tim knows it's going to be a bad day the moment he wakes up.

His subpar internal clock tells him it's not yet afternoon, but based on his sleep schedule it's probably close. Tim sits up, pushing the blankets to the side and relishing the wave of cold air that follows.

Though the curtains block out most light, it isn't so dark that Tim can't see. He'd spent another night at his hideaway rather than the Drake's mansion. Tim feels like he's suffocating when he's with the Drakes, and while both houses are empty, at least Tim can breathe in his.

Tim's phone buzzes from across the room, but he doesn't feel like getting up to check it. Whatever it is can wait. More than likely, it's another attempt from Dick to get him to talk to Harley, or see Stephanie and Cass, or stop antagonizing Batman. Tim doesn't feel like fending off those kinds of messages today.

Today is bomb day.

Tim's been meticulously planning this for the past week. Maybe longer. It would already be done had there not been a minor Arkham breakout. Batman was busy corralling the Penguin and Scarecrow and the other various unimportant inmates who'd escaped all week. Tim had put off his plans until they were caught and sent back.

After all, Tim is a ring leader. His act is center stage. It won't do to have Batman chasing after someone else while Tim ruins him.

Now that Cobblepot and Crane are behind Asylum doors once more, Tim can move along with his plan. The first steps are already taken care of. The bomb is already in place in Bruce Wayne's office, put there by a custodian that Tim had paid off the night before. The detonator is once again hidden in the top of Tim's cane, but Tim has rigged it to blow when Wayne sits behind his desk.

Wayne _is_ a detective, though, so Tim has a few more placed around the top floor of the building just in case.

Tim switches on the overhead lamp and slips out of bed, padding towards his phone. He checks the messages, unsurprised to find it is Dick who sent them. He breezes through them despite not planning to reply.

_Text me when you wake up._

_Tim, seriously._

_I'm not joking._

_Tim. _

Tim scrolls through the list of similar messages, eyebrows furrowing. Each reads more urgent than the last, and it takes getting to the bottom of them to understand why. Tim stops, fingers twitching on the phone.

_We're going to Jason's grave tonight while Batman is on patrol. Are you coming or not?_

Tim nearly drops the phone, stomach twisting uncomfortably. _Oh_. That's why it felt like a bad day.

It's the anniversary.

Tim sinks to the floor, pressing his back against the wall. Three years. Jason died three years ago, today. Tim takes a deep breath, trying to settle his stomach. Has Dick always gone to visit the…_grave_? Or is he doing it now, out of guilt, because Tim is back?

Tim doesn't know what to think about that. Jason is…he wasn't important to them. Not like he was to Tim. And where…would Jason be buried? In a public cemetery? Or on Wayne property?

Jason's _grave_. Tim doesn't…he can't…He can't see that. He can't go to a graveyard with Dick and pretend Jason belongs there. He can't stare at a rock and talk to it and pretend that Jason can hear him six feet under.

Tim rubs under his eye, typing a quick reply with his other hand. His heart is thundering in his ears, and Tim feels like he's on the brink of a panic attack. He takes a few steadying breaths, willing the turmoil in his stomach to calm.

He waits for the message to send before he turns his phone off. It's one thing to be taking the revenge Jason deserved, living in his memory. It's another thing to stand above a coffin with a…a _body_ in it.

_Not._

:::

This block of town has always been busy. Wayne Tower stands on one side of the square, Drake Enterprises on the other. Tim takes a moment to study the two before he heads through the doors of his company.

He feels strange, dressed in a pressed suit and face clear of any make-up. It's still his natural instinct to hide when he isn't painted. Being here, out in the open…It's like he's an exposed nerve. Vulnerable. Best to get this over with quickly, then.

He ignores the people he passes, going straight to the elevator and pressing the button for the top floor. He sags against the back wall, fingers tightening on the rod of his cane like a lifeline.

The doors slide shut, leaving him alone in the compartment. Tim rolls back his shoulders, frowning at the stiffness of the fabric. Even with the overcoat, his uniform is much more comfortable than the suit. Yet another reason to drop the Timothy Drake act as soon as possible.

The elevator comes to a stop, lightly shuddering before the doors slide open, revealing the mostly vacant halls of the top floor. Tim steps out, hurrying to the large room that serves as his office. He closes the door behind him, all but running to the windows that face Wayne Tech.

While the Drake Enterprises building is not nearly as tall as Wayne Tech's, Tim can still see the top floor if he sits and leans against the window. He lays his cane across his legs, thumb rubbing circles around the cap that hides the detonator.

When Wayne sits behind his desk, the first bomb will go off, triggering the chain reaction of the other three Tim has hidden around the floor. There will be screaming, and news helicopters circling the wreckage. Bruce Wayne will be pronounced dead, and Batman will no longer patrol the streets.

Gotham will turn into a warzone.

Tim doesn't particularly care. Anything that draws out the Joker.

Kill Batman to draw out the Joker, kill the Joker to end the circle.

Tim rests his temple against the window. A part of him – a very small part – wonders when it got so natural to think about killing them. He's not sure what it says about him. Then again, he's not sure he cares about that either.

Tim waits for ten minutes, nerves jittering all the while. In the end, his impatience takes over. He opens the handle of his cane, pressing down on the exposed red button. It takes less than a second for the reaction. Across the block, Tim watches as the top floor windows of Wayne Tech blow out, shattered glass falling to the street below. The force is strong enough to shake _his_ building and set off dozens of car alarms. Smoke billows out on all sides of the building, filling the air with a thick blackness.

Tim takes another breath.

A bomb for a bomb.

It's morbidly poetic.


End file.
